


Poet

by HGRomance



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, Erotic Poetry, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mentor-Student Relationship, Oral Sex, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2096589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HGRomance/pseuds/HGRomance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peeta is a famous erotic poet who sends readers into a tailspin with his verse. When he moves to Katniss’s university hometown, she finds herself at his front door, hoping to get a critique of her story. One-shot. Modern AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Streetlightlove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Streetlightlove/gifts).



> Okay, so I wasn't planning to post this, but I surrendered :) *clears throat* For the s2sl charity, and its theme of sexy stories, this one is a bit more wicked than I usually get. It's also a step out of my comfort zone, with its New Adult vibe. But I was keen to write it, and I hope you have fun reading! Thank you to streetlightlove, Chelzie, Court81981, and iLoVeRyMar.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own THE HUNGER GAMES trilogy. It belongs to Suzanne Collins. I merely want to spend more time with her characters.
> 
> Music: "Tip of My Tongue" by The Civil Wars

On stage, two empty chairs sit angular to each other, upholstered in chestnut leather and illuminated by globes of light. Behind the chairs, the folds of a velvet curtain billow. One would think we're all here to witness some sacred ritual rather than listen to a simple reading.

The college's auditorium is packed to capacity tonight. Adjusting my thick-rimmed glasses, I overhear attendees talking about him. The poet.

His book is called _Undress_. It's his first one, a collection of erotic poems that has been catching fire and literally seizing Panem by the nuts. Even high school girls have flocked to this event. I'm eighteen, not much older than they are, but being a freshman in college draws an invisible line between them and me. I'm happy about that line. I hated high school.

Those girls are the opposite of me, sporting peach lipstick and social skills. They're the kinds of girls who used to judge me for wearing oversized, ugly clothes. They're not the types who go to poetry readings. They must be here because of the hype and the rumors. Supposedly, the author's young and hot.

 _Have you read it?_ the girls giggle. They recite passages from his work, dissolving into nauseating NC-17 sighs. The lines make it to my ears. _You...drips of impatience...your thighs on the auction block...later, absorbing me...my mouth makes another bid for you...this one is private...oh, you...absorbing me...sprawled on..._

Listening to the rest, I feel my eyes round behind my lenses. My fingers find their way to my tightly woven braid.

"Holy fucking moly." Sitting beside me, my best friend Jo kicks the toe of my boot. "Katniss Everdeen, are you blushing?"

"Go away," I mutter, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. I pull out my notebook and lucky pen, just in case the poet actually says something worth remembering.

Jo kicks me again. "You shouldn't feel bad for eavesdropping on smut. That's one of my favorite poems of his. When I first read it, I was in the library, and I swear, if the nerve-endings in my vagina were plugged in, I would have blown a fuse, and the building would have had a blackout."

"Jo," I warn under my breath.

"What? _You_ go away," she volleys back. "No one's forcing you to be here, Your Prudeness."

She's wrong. My writing professor is forcing me to be here. It's Jo who didn't have to come along, but she did because she's a fan of all things sexy and, naturally, she bought a copy of _Undress_ when she heard about the reading. As for myself, I'd rather be home in my pajamas, giving my cat a bath, eating canned lamb stew, and polishing off the night with an episode of _A History of Archers_ on the Discovery Channel.

I'm not a fan of sex verse. I don't even read that sludge in novels. It's just not literary. It's gratuitous and only meant to shock people, or to stimulate them. Moreover, I shun books that reach the boiling point of success too fast and become "popular." They're never as good as the world claims they are.

But hearing those girls reciting that poem, it felt unsettling.

I shake my head. No, I'm being silly.

"Erotica isn't real writing," I say.

"Oh, get over yourself," Jo says. "Writing that stuff takes skill."

"So does sword-swallowing, but that doesn't mean the world needs to see it in action."

"You are one little..." Jo trails off. Her eyeballs lurch from their sockets as she gawks at something behind me. "Aye yai yai."

Whatever she sees, it also tramples the teenage girls' conversation. Throughout the auditorium, people begin to stir, all of them glancing in the same direction.

"Oh, my God," one woman says.

"Gorgeous," another says.

Curious, I twist around. Sauntering down the aisle is a guy. His body must have been designed by an architect, but the rest of him is a study in leisure: mussed blond hair, as though he just threw himself out of bed, a blue Henley and dark jeans that shift lazily with his movements, and the kind of walk that's slightly off-center, with a boyish slant to it.

He's unaware of the brushfire of attention he's getting. He tips his head down as he listens to a grossly overdressed woman who's trotting beside him and rattling off a bunch of things from the clipboard in her hand, like she's his assistant or something.

"I think that's him," someone whispers.

I squint. Him whom?

In addition to the woman, two men accompany him: the dean of students, as well as the evening's moderator, Caesar Flickermann. A heartbeat later, my face goes slack. That blond stud carrying a messenger bag and drinking from a stainless steel thermos. That's the poet?

That's—I consult my notebook—that's Peeta Mellark?

He _is_ young, probably in his mid-twenties. The ruckus elevates into applause and cheers as everyone registers who's just arrived. He glances up and offers us all a disarming smile. The sight turns my insides to gelatin, and I shrink into my seat, chastising myself. As if someone like him would ever look my way. As if I should care.

Indeed, he walks right past my row. Forget that two-thousand people cram this auditorium. I've never been the sort of girl that people notice.

Jo waggles her brows, then gestures at Peeta's retreating form. "Nom nom," she teases.

I roll my eyes. Her and her stupid sound effects.

Peeta and his entourage disappear backstage. I wonder what they're doing, what they're talking about, what he's thinking and if he's nervous. His broad features had been relaxed, on the dreamy side of handsome.

Good grief. I swipe off my glasses, only to shove them right back up the bridge of my nose.

Jo titters at me. "You okay?"

"Yes," I growl.

The dean crosses onto the stage and glides into a fairly predictable speech. How great it is to see everyone here. Our university's appreciation for the arts, especially for risk takers. An innocent pun about the nature of Peeta's work, earning a round of polite laughter.

On cue, he relinquishes the spotlight to Caesar, who struts out from behind the curtain, flashes his pearly whites, and gets down to the interesting stuff: Peeta's short but considerable bio. His unprecedented success as a poet. How his collection of erotic poems hit the ground running. Awards. Gushing reviews. A playwright who's adapting one of Peeta's poems into a theatre piece.

How he grew up here, in this college town of District Twelve, and has just moved back indefinitely. How he recently became the university's new artist in residence.

I pause in the act of writing, my lucky pen scratching across the paper. Peeta Mellark lives here now?

Caesar presses his palms together like he's praying. "And now, it's my honor to welcome a poet who's not only brilliant and daring, but so very fucking cool. Peeta Mellark."

The crowd goes nuts, courtesy of the undergrads and teens whooping like there's a rock star in the house. Peeta steps onto the stage, fresh-faced and humbly waving off the introduction. He and Caesar take their seats. The commotion fades, though not before someone whistles suggestively at Peeta, which makes him chuckle.

Caesar primps his pompadour and jokes to his guest, "They always do that for me."

Once the audience settles down, he ticks off a bunch of questions. Did Peeta ever expect this kind of response to _Undress_? Is he worried about the curse of rapid success, a fate that leaves many artists crashing and burning before their careers have really begun? Why does he write about sex? Why does he think this collection is so provocative?

Peeta has a voice that's soft yet masculine. His words have a tendency to crack like a kid's, but it's sturdy, like something one can physically hold onto.

He tackles the Q & A with confidence and traces of humor. He doesn't think his book _should_ be considered provocative, since every poem or story is about sex, love, or death—and he just happens to write bluntly about one of them. He sips from his thermos in between answers. Riveted by the way his throat rocks up and down, I forget to take notes.

"Is there someone who inspires your poems?" Caesar asks, leaning in close.

Code for whether Peeta is banging someone. Very subtle.

Peeta's laugh is electric. "Not really. There's no special lady in my life."

That answer is a charm-infused current that sweeps through the auditorium. It's airborne, elating nearly every woman here, and some men to boot. When he gets up to read from his collection, it's the calm before the storm. He makes his way to the podium and flips through the pages of his book, the leaflets whipping gently in the quiet. He clears his throat, a guttural noise that is inexplicably sexy, and scans the audience.

Those eyes sail past me. Halt. Flit back to where I'm sitting.

Even from this distance, I see that his irises are a vivid, spellbinding blue. With his Henley magnifying the color, how was this not the first detail I noticed about him? The mythic blue forces me to grip the armrests. I'm in no way ready for this moment and, thus, I glance down.

"Look at me," he says.

My head darts back up. A second passes between us. Then he regards the rest of the crowd.

 _Look at me_ , he says again, and I realize that he's reading the first lines of his poem. Of course, he wasn't speaking to me. It was the briefest eye contact, so slight that it must have been a figment of my imagination.

I've always thought poetry to be tedious, guilty of never saying what it means. A literary jigsaw puzzle that rarely produces a recognizable image. But hearing it recited is different. The verse becomes clearer, a shape taking form.

_Do what I say...let me commit a deep crime...let me thaw you out._

I peek around. People are hanging onto the poem by their fingernails.

_...the stuttered rhythm of your cursing...a half-smile between your thighs._

My right foot rides of the side of my left calf.

_...toes choke the sheets...your moan, incense to me._

On the final line, his gaze seeks me out. _I'll wreak havoc in you, if you'll allow it._

I tear my eyes away. After a dozen or so poems, Peeta finishes to wild applause, and I sag into my chair, exhausted.

Jo drags me with her for the book signing, even as I grind my heels into the floor. I've already made up my mind to dislike Peeta Mellark and his effect on me.

The line is ridiculously long. Peeta sits at a table, at the front. His perky assistant with the pink-frosted hair stands behind him as he chats with fans. They butter him up with compliments, offer him a prize view of their cleavage, and basically do everything short of giving him a lap dance. Either he doesn't notice or doesn't care.

Meanwhile, I tilt my head, studying the way his wrist moves as he signs books. When Jo's turn finally comes, I ignore her protests and bolt off the side.

"Have mercy," Jo says to Peeta, dropping her copy of _Undress_ onto the table. "You, sir, are a life-ruiner."

He laughs at the playful accusation. Up close, I discover that he has freckles and, for no reason, hitch the strap of my backpack in place. Unfortunately, this catches his attention. Those blues lock onto mine and glitter with recognition. I scowl, erasing the grin he'd been about to wield.

"That's my friend, Katniss," Jo says. "Don't take her scowl seriously. She's a mouse."

"Is that right?" he says while staring at me. "Does Katniss want an autographed copy, too?"

I can't decide what rankles me more. Jo's offhanded comment, or Peeta's use of the third person, or that we've suddenly got the attention of hundreds of people.

"Not from you," I say and then march off. Behind me, disapproving mutters from the crowd strike me in the back.

kpkpkpkpkp

"You don't fucking think ahead, do you, brainless? I've been waiting for-fucking-ever for you to climb out of your own skin. I've been praying at my bedside for you muster up the cojones to live out loud. And when you finally do, it's irony's way of punking me. Of all the people to snub, you chose Peeta Mellark!"

Jo strangles the steering wheel and curses at the front windshield all the way to my house. I grew up only a few blocks from campus, so the ride isn't long, but she makes the most of it. "If you hadn't been such an Ivy League bitch to him, you could have gotten his help. For a former high school valedictorian, you sure are stupid."

She's right, I realize. My first short story for class has been bugging me for weeks. My professor had had everyone draw a genre from a bag, and I'd gotten stuck with erotica. That's why I went to the reading tonight. My professor suggested it would help give me a better perspective on my work. I've finished the story, but I have no clue if it's any good.

If I'd been friendly, Peeta Mellark could have given me his opinion. He's the artist in residence, after all. He'd probably be willing to help students who reach out.

The thought cements in my mind and plagues me into the next morning. After locating a university email address for him, I drum my fingers on my desk and stare at my laptop. After the way I acted, he'll definitely say no. Still, I hate loose ends.

_Mr. Mellark,_

_I've recently been assigned to write a short story for class. As you're familiar with the subject matter, I was hoping that I might get your thoughts on my draft. See attached._

_Thank you very much._

_Sincerely,_

_Katniss Everdeen._

Chances are, he won't even remember who I am.

kpkpkpkpkp

It's been a week, but he hasn't replied. It was a dumb idea anyway. Whether or not he remembered me, he must have been turned off that I sent my story without asking first if he'd care to read it—a presumptuous and entitled move. And if he _did_ remember me, he must have also thought I had nerve, soliciting his help after cutting him down in public.

It's late afternoon on Friday. Mom's at work, my little sister's at the movies with a friend, and Jo's got a date. My cat, Buttercup, is preoccupied with mice in the backyard.

I'm alone. Clad in fuzzy socks and a Snuggie, I'm listening to a podcast marathon of NPR's _Puzzle Master_ , chucking popcorn at my laptop and booing because the current puzzle is way too easy. The challenge is that every answer is the name of a tree, and the goal is to identify the tree name from its anagram. The first word was _reap_ , and the answer was _pear_. It's supposed to get more difficult, but it hasn't yet.

"Allure," the host prompts.

"Laurel," I say, exasperated.

The contestant still can't figure it out. Patience lost, I check my email and lurch forward. There's a reply from Peeta Mellark. My heart leapfrogs into my chest. Tentatively, I open the message.

_I'm finished. Come pick it up._

_—P_

I jerk my hands in the air, palms up, in mystification. He actually read my story. Does he like it? Does he hate it? When does he want me to pick it up? Right now?

Anyone else would be fangirling. This is exactly what I hoped for, but my thought process doesn't steer me to a happy place. It steers me toward dread. I didn't expect him to humor me.

Or to provide his campus address, when he could have just emailed his critique. What is there to say face-to-face? Does he hope to see me squirm while he bashes my descriptions of... My skin burns. It officially sinks in, what I sent to him. A story about a girl's first time, which happens in a cave, with a boy she barely knows but who claims to have loved her since he was five. Which ends with her breaking his heart, because how could she not?

Her first time. In detail. Just by reading it, Peeta must have discovered that I'm by no means an authority on sex.

I wring my hands. He did me a courtesy. I have no choice but to go.

Jumping into my clothes, I purse my lips at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The rebellious strings of hair that have come loose from my braid. My faded leggings, which have begun to stretch out. The long sleeves of my sweater draped over my fingertips. The only thing I have going for me is my pair of green Hunter rain boots, even though it's not raining.

The walk takes twenty minutes. He lives in a residential neighborhood, where the university owns a few houses for staff clubs and department offices. I adjust my glasses and do a nervous jig on the porch. My sleeves keep flopping over my knuckles no matter how often I shove them up my forearms.

The door opens. I jump and scuttle backward, mindful that I hadn't even knocked yet.

Peeta leans his shoulder against the frame while holding a steaming cup in his hand. He looks the same as he did in the auditorium, with bed hair that curls at the ends, freckles, and ruler-straight brows. Only this time, he's sporting a burgundy knit sweater and black jeans. They ride low on his hips, landing in a frayed puddle around his marled socks.

_Thank you for seeing me. You didn't have to do this. I hope I'm not troubling you. I apologize for my behavior the other night. I wasn't feeling well, as you most likely deduced. Haha._

"Nice to see you again, Katniss," he says, which must be a lie.

My sleeves droop over my hands yet again. He notices, his gaze sliding over my ensemble. I should have worn something more presentable. I never would have shown up to the dean's residence looking this sloppy.

"I didn't think you'd remember me," I confess.

He lets out a masculine chuckle. "You're hard to forget."

My face scrunches. Now, he's really lying. Or he's referring to the way I turned my back on him at the book signing.

He seems to hone in on my discomfort and amends, "With a name like Katniss."

Well. That makes sense, too.

I hike up my sleeves and fold my hands in front of me. "Um, you said to come over, but you weren't very specific. I just assumed you meant now. But if this is a bad time—"

"No, I meant now," he says, straightening from the door and jerking his chin. "Come in."

That would suggest we need privacy, with solid walls boxing us in. Out of the question.

"What would my grade be?" I blurt out, by way of stalling.

"Excuse me?" he asks, perplexed.

"If you had to grade my story, what would you—"

"I'm not a professor."

"But—"

"Come inside."

He disappears into the house. I glance over my shoulder, then back at the open doorway before tiptoeing after him. The latch clicks softly in place as I shut the door. Wavering there, the soles of my rain boots make suction noises on the floor. It might be rude not to remove the boots, but I don't want to give the impression that I plan on staying long.

The muscles of Peeta's back shift under his sweater as he migrates toward the kitchen. "Make yourself at home," he calls out. "Would you like tea or coffee?"

"Water," I say. "No ice."

It's the scratchy echo of brass instruments that unglues me from my spot, luring me further into the living room. A jazz record spins on a tabletop player, the jaunty tune coaxing me closer. The house is all wood, from the beamed ceiling to the floor. Flames coil from behind the glass panes of a fireplace. He likes plaid wool throws. And art. Among the moving boxes wedged into a corner, a few abstract canvas paintings lean against the wall, waiting to be hung.

The shelf above the fireplace displays a childlike toothpick sculpture that's hard to decipher. It kind of looks like a bird.

"I made that when I was in kindergarten."

I flinch, ambushed by Peeta's proximity as he looms beside me. Sandalwood cologne wafts into my nose. That and the scent of cinnamon.

He offers me a cup. "Dark hot chocolate." His blue eyes glint with mischief. "Sorry. I ran out of water."

Wise guy. As I accept the chocolate, his thumbs ghost over mine, the sensation stupefying me so that I almost lose my grip on the handle. He delays for a second before pulling away, then saunters to the record player as if nothing happened. He turns off the music.

"So we can concentrate," he explains.

I would have rather left the jazz on. I'm not ready to concentrate with him.

He settles into a chair. I perch on the edge of the sofa, mustering up a poker face as he slides my story out from the coffee table drawer. I spot pencil notes along the margins. Most of them end with question marks.

Peeta scans the first page, his thumb propped against his chin, the length of his index finger rubbing his lower lip in silent contemplation. I drain my cup and then proceed to gnaw on my pinky nail. Poet Peeta Mellark is critiquing my writing. And he doesn't look impressed.

He tosses the story onto the coffee table. "What are you studying?"

Oh, no. Chitchat. Hence, he wants to be nice before crushing my prose to smithereens. I'm terrible at polite conversation, yet the warm, encouraging light in his eyes causes me to answer automatically. "Forestry and Environmental Science."

He cocks his head. "A woodland girl?"

"Something like that." I focus on the cushions separating us. "It's not really that interesting."

"I disagree. You see, Katniss, the way this works is that we have to get to know each other before braving the deep stuff."

"The deep stuff," I repeat.

"Deep," he confirms. "Like, do you like coffee or tea? Or water? Or what do you study? Or what's your favorite color? Mine is right out there." He points to the window where the gray clouds have shifted, allowing ribbons of dusky orange to squeeze through. It's going to be dark soon.

He likes orange. I hesitate, then tell him my signature color is green, that it's the color of my lucky pen and my room when I was a kid. And yes, it's the color of nature. And I love nature.

We talk for over an hour. He asks me things, and the more I reveal, the more the knots in my shoulders unwind. I find myself wiggling into the sofa, even laughing shyly at his jokes.

Eventually, he contributes tidbits about himself. He loves to paint, grew up in a bakery, has two brothers, and has a quirk about leaving the window open when he sleeps. He hated poetry in high school. He didn't appreciate it until later when he discovered that his father used to write verse.

"But, um, why this kind of poetry?" I ask, because I just can't understand it.

"Why erotica?" Peeta shrugs, unsurprised by the question. "Sex seemed like an easy place to start my writing, but then I discovered it's not easy at all. And I guess the more difficult it became, the more I wanted to stick with it. I'm stubborn."

"That pretty much sums me up, too," I say.

We laugh.

"Also," he admits, "as a kid, I saw how violent people can be. So I wanted to explore the opposite: how passionate people can be."

He falls silent, entombed in his own private thoughts, then gives me an apologetic smile. I long to know more, but I don't want to pry. As it is, I can't believe that he confessed as much as he did to a stranger like me. Or that he managed to waylay me this long.

He inclines his head toward my story. "I'll tell you what I think on one condition."

I retrieve my work, hold it protectively on my lap, and wait, sensing a challenge.

Peeta doesn't disappoint. "Read it," he says.

I grip the stack of pages. "What? You mean... You mean, out loud?"

He stares at me. Internally, I panic. Is he serious? But he's already gone through my story himself. Why does he need me to read it to him? My fingers are sweating and leaving smudge marks all over the third paragraph.

"It—it's twenty pages long," I reason.

Peeta arches an eyebrow, the firelight carving through his notoriously chiseled features. "I'm aware of how long it is."

"I can't read this to you," I insist. "It's about..."

His lips twitch. "It's about what?" he inquires in a smooth voice.

It's about sex. He's Peeta Mellark, a sorcerer of words. And I'm just a student. A nobody. I don't care how patient he's been with me. I can't read a graphic smut scene to him. Not when we're alone in his house, when I barely know him, when he's older and wiser.

I adjust my glasses and shake my head. "I-I don't want to."

Peeta reclines in his chair, his burgundy sweater spanning his chest. He twirls a pencil between his fingers. "Why not?"

A simple question. Which makes it a difficult question.

He expects an answer, but there is none. He knows why I can't read it.

He drops the pencil, gets up, and sits beside me on the sofa. "Katniss, part of learning to write involves learning to talk about what you're writing. Not to mention, learning to read it to people. If you do, you'll see the story differently."

"Why would I want to?"

"To understand it better. Deeper."

Deeper. There's that word again. Why does it make me nervous?

I think of when he read his poems aloud, how everything made more sense once it came from his lips. Nevertheless, I mumble, "I'm uncomfortable with that. Reading about..."

"Fucking?" he says softly, as if it's a gentle act rather than a primal one.

My cheeks detonate with heat. My head falls forward, my glasses landing at the cliff of my nose as I stare at my lap. The silence is so sharp, I could use it to slit my wrists.

"Well, I don't want to make you uncomfortable," he says. "If you are, we can stop talking. You can read my notes, and if you have questions, feel free to email me. It's up to you. Just remember, storytelling isn't always comfortable. You have to let yourself go. You've already taken a huge step by tackling a subject you're not at ease with."

"Not by choice. It's an assignment."

His index finger steals beneath my chin and cants my head up. That same finger pushes my glasses back in place. "Reading your work aloud is another step to knowing what you've done. The sounds and tastes of the syllables. The textures and rhythms of the sentences. The words that keep repeating. The thoughts aching to burst free. The narrative's pulse."

My own pulse hammers. His finger is intoxicating me, taking my rationale prisoner.

"And maybe once you take that step, you'll know what to do to mend the story," he finishes.

I balk, his comment extinguishing whatever trance I'd been in and triggering the defensive side of me. "Mend?"

Peeta pulls back. "You have something, Katniss. You have the ability to draw a reader into your story. It's an intriguing, emotional premise."

His carefully measured words only frustrate me more. "I prefer brutal honesty. I can handle it."

He almost grins, a crease rising at the margin of his mouth. "I know you can. Your scowl told me as much the other night. That doesn't mean I can't start with the positive things first. Anyway, there's a carefully wrought nature to the text that concerns me. It just doesn't feel real in the story."

Instantly, I bristle. So much for me having a thick hide.

"Please don't take this unkindly," he implores. "I read between the lines, this fire sealed inside you. It needs air. You care about this piece more than you think. But right now, you're too aware of it as a construction—as a thing to be crafted and polished, with order, conflicts, and resolutions that sound too mechanical. You're not allowing the scenes to breathe and run rampant. Instead, this reads like a formulaic notion of what a story is _supposed_ to be."

That strikes my academic nerve with the point of an arrow. "And what's the alternative?"

"If you'd read it out loud, you might get an idea."

"Then, what do I need you for?"

His eyes flash. "We'll get to that."

I argue, "You're a master of verse. Not narrative."

"So what?"

"So I don't know why I'm even here. The same rules of writing don't apply."

"Yes and no. Either way, I've been doing this long enough that I can tell when a writer is letting their own consciousness, morals, and ideals invade a story. Your character's a teenager. She's led a raw and gritty life, but she doesn't talk like it. She uses words like _member_ to describe the boy's erection. That might work if she were sheltered or some virginal debutante in Regency England, but she's not. I'm betting she'd say, _cock_."

"I won't use that word," I declare.

"This isn't just about you. It's about the heroine. Look at me."

When I do, Peeta traps me in his blue gaze. "You're a good writer, Katniss. This can be beautiful, but you're too focused on the end result to dig further. You're holding back when you can do better. I know you can.

"Think like your heroine. Tap into that fragile but impassioned heart. Would she truly _engage in intimacy_? Or would she _make love_ , or _have sex_ , or would she _do stuff_? Imagine how sex would be for her and go for it."

My head is protesting. But my chest is not. It's fluttering with apprehension, curiosity, excitement. The logs in the fireplace spark, the flames whipping around like they're trying to bust out of their cage.

Peeta glances at my lips, which makes them tingle. No one has ever looked at them like that. I must be under hypnosis. He could have anyone he wants, someone closer to his own age. A graduate student with breasts and confidence, who knows how to do the very things he writes about.

At the same time, I'm riled up by his critique. "I'll work on that. The vocabulary," I say, needing to get out of here before I do something stupid like snap at him. Or touch him.

Muttering my haphazard gratitude, I retreat to the door. My hand wrenches the knob to the right when Peeta taps me on the shoulder. He hands me my story, which I swipe from him. He seems reluctant about something and opens his mouth, but I can't let him have the last word.

Ignoring the doubt perched in my throat, I cut him off. "This isn't my style. Stories of this nature."

He gets the last word anyway. "Then what is your nature, Katniss?"

kpkpkpkpkp

That's another valid question. It's strange that I'm taking this assignment to heart, when it's not part of my major. My Narrative Writing class is just a Humanities fulfillment.

At home, I bury the story in my desk drawer and then take a very indulgent shower. I toss and turn that night, thinking about all the things he said. Shuffling back to my desk, I light a candle—I decide to experiment with ambiance—and pull out my story. Some of his notes, I agree with. Others, I don't. I reread the story quietly and get out my lucky pen _._

The setting changes from a cave to a lush forest, a rough landscape teeming with wild noises. Ideas sprout and multiply, and my pen flies. It's a clumsy thrill between the boy and girl. After they force themselves to calm down, they learn how their legs and lips work. He comes, but she doesn't, so his mouth takes care of her by following the navigation of her sighs. My fingers shake, my chest beating out an unfamiliar tune.

It's not that I haven't thought about it before. It's just that I've been busy exercising my brain for my family, for scholarships and honors. But in between the sentences, I wonder what's it like to be with a man.

Rustling sheets. _Arch. Shiver. Wet._ Hungry, naked bodies. _Spread. Pain. Burn._ The bluest eyes, hard on me. _Yes._ _Right. There._ The hiss of my name as it leaves his lips.

_Fuck._

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All through classes that week, there's a bounce in my step, which Jo grills me about. I haven't told her that I met with Peeta Mellark. If I do, she'll want to know everything, but I'm still processing what he makes me feel, what this new type of writing makes me feel. It's like I've just discovered stories. Places where, besides the wilderness, I can let myself go.

The girl still breaks the boy's heart in the story. Whenever I think about that scene, and the look on his face, I ache. I guess what I care about, what matters to me, is always going to be scary.

On the following Friday night, I brave a final read-through. When I'm done, my adrenaline spikes. I want to show this to Peeta, to thank him for his help. I want to do it today.

My choice of outfit is more considerate this time. I borrow one of my sister's floral print dresses. She's a couple of years younger, so it's a bit snug, but I drape on a long cardigan and pair everything with my favorite boots. I tug my braid loose and let my hair cascade in waves around my shoulders.

By the time I get to Peeta's house and knock, I'm eager to see him again. Until the door opens.

A blond head emerges. It's not Peeta. It's a girl. A stunning girl, maybe a couple of years older than me.

My heart sinks to my ankles. Right then, I understand why I was so intent on coming here. I don't know Peeta, but I do know that he keeps his window open while he sleeps, likes jazz and art, and has a sense of humor, a sweet smile, and a sexy voice. I know more about his poems, too, because I finally read his book. I like him. A lot.

Now, I know something else. He's taken.

The girl shrugs on her jacket. "Hi," she says. "Can I help you?"

My ability to handle chaos has been finely tuned over the years. But for once, I cannot formulate a response. "Hi, I... I was just..."

"Are you looking for Peeta?" Before I have the chance to scream _nooooo_ , she twists around and chirps, "Peeta!"

Then he's there in a robe, tank, and flannel pants. He isn't dressed for company, but his blue eyes dance when he sees me. "Katniss," he says. "Hey."

The girl says something about being in a hurry. She gives him an intimate hug, hops down the porch, and heads to her car.

Peeta scratches his chin ruefully. "Sorry about that. Cashmere really was in a hurry, otherwise she'd have let me introduce you."

Introductions are the last thing I want. And her name is Cashmere? Even for a poet, that's taking his fetish for words to a whole new level. And now that I think about it, how did he manage to find a girlfriend so quickly? Is she also a student? Did come over one afternoon, also asking for help with her story?

"Katniss?" Peeta asks, concerned.

I could leave. It would be easier to send a formal "thank you" note later. That way, I wouldn't have to stick around, feeling lackluster compared to his girlfriend.

I've waited too long to speak because Peeta ventures, "I'm glad you came back. I've been thinking about you. How's the story coming?"

It's burning a hole in my bag. A big hole.

He must misinterpret my silence for literary distress. Creases buckle in his forehead, and he walks backward, beckoning me inside. "Let's talk. I'll make you more hot chocolate."

I try to object, but he's already gone. If I have any dignity, I won't make a huge deal of this. After all, I only spent one evening in his company. I'm not a shallow girl who falls for a guy at warp speed.

Stepping inside and closing the door, I inhale the comforting aromas of cinnamon and baked bread. It's ridiculous how sad I become from smelling those two things.

There's no fire brimming in the living room, though a few lamps are dimly lit. There's a new bookshelf packed with gold leaf titles. Nosy, I check out the shelves, then stiffen when Peeta approaches with a steaming mug—the same one from last time. I take it but don't drink.

"I wanted to email you," he says. "But I figured it was best for you to contact me. I mean, not that I expected you to contact me. Just if you felt up to it."

Of all the things to shoot from my mouth, I go for rudeness. "With Cashmere around, you actually had time to think of me?"

Peeta frowns. Whatever expression lurks on my face, it broadcasts my feelings loud and clear, and dawning sweeps across his own features. "Katniss, that doesn't sounds like something a student asks a mentor."

I set the hot chocolate on the bookshelf. "You're not my mentor. I just came to say thanks for the help."

Peeta's gaze searches mine. The last thing I sound is grateful. At best, I'm being an envious bitch.

"My pleasure." He clips his head toward the hall and challenges, "There's the door."

"Bye," I say.

"Bye," he says.

Neither of us moves. The shriek of a buzzer pierces through the house, and Peeta vanishes into the kitchen, giving me a moment. I snatch a volume by someone named Erich Fried from the shelf and flip to a random poem, needing to keep my hands busy.

His footsteps return. He plucks the book away, checks out whatever poem is on the page, and reads it in a voice that would snap a thermometer.

_Your distant voice so near_

_on the phone and soon_

_when we're close_

_I will hear it_

_from much further away_

_because it will have to travel_

_from your mouth_

_to my ears a great distance_

_past your breasts_

_across your navel_

_and the small mound_

_along your entire body_

_on which you look down to watch_

_my head_

_and my face_

_buried_

_in your thighs_

_and in your hair_

_and in your womb_

He slaps the book shut with one hand and levels me with a candid gaze. "Cashmere's my cousin."

My back hits the shelf. "Oh."

I'm mortified. This isn't to say my assumption wasn't warranted, or that I suddenly have a chance with Peeta. I'm not in his league. I'm not even in the same solar system. The other evening, he probably thought to entertain himself by charming the geeky undergrad wriggling on his couch, never considering me for something more.

That has to be it. It wouldn't have been the first time a guy has done that to me.

Yet. His irises reflect a gradient of blue shades, one emotion shifting into the next. Amusement, then affection, then hope. "I thought you were leaving," he says.

The problem is my legs have short-circuited. I can't move.

Peeta sets the book next to the hot chocolate. "I've been meaning to ask. Why did you want me to read your story if you don't like my work?"

"I never said I didn't like your poems," I contest, breathless. "I said I didn't want an autograph."

He smirks. "Okay." He steps forward and murmurs the worst thing he could possibly murmur. "Katniss."

I jump from my spot, scrambling backward and gesturing to the bookcase. "I-I see you don't alphabetize your titles. You really should, though."

Peeta begins to stalk me along the length of the shelves.

"Or I could h-h-help you," I suggest. "I mean, of course you know how to spell."

And honestly, with the way his eyes blaze a trail across my dress, I can barely _recite_ the alphabet at the moment. But I can't shut up, either. "It's just that you've got hundreds of titles here, and that's a lot of work to do alone. Especially since you've already unpacked. Or maybe you do have your own method. Like organized chaos."

He pursues. The intentional look on his face trips a wire in my pelvis.

"Or th-they could be rearranged by genre," I say.

His arms stretch out, reaching for me. I snatch a heavy anthology off the shelf and dump it into his empty hands. "I'd start with the anthologies first," I say desperately. "And then..." Then I get to the end of the shelf. Turning away, I pretend to examine his collection. "I would move onto the..."

Peeta's robe brushes the back of my dress. He smells like blown-out candles and kitchen spices.

"I would move onto fiction..." The words fade as one hand curves over my hip, the other swipes aside my hair, and his mouth makes contact with my skin. Hot, lazy little kisses ascend the column of my neck, causing a riot in my bloodstream. "After fiction..." My voice comes out weak and rickety, like it's about to collapse. "I'd finish with the...the, um...the..."

His moist lips find my pulse point and suck on it gently. I gasp, my head listing to the side, my lashes batting to stay open.

"The what?" he whispers.

I don't know anymore. I had no idea that anything could generate this kind of response from me, that my body had this kind of power, or that it could be this painfully, impossibly good. Such a simple touch, yet I feel faint.

Peeta cups my jaw and twists my face to look up at him. He moves in to kiss me, but when he mumbles my name, I remember who I am and wrench myself away, stumbling from his arms.

"Enough," I say. "This isn't funny."

His eyes widen. "Funny? Katniss, did I do someth—"

"You think you're the first guy to make a sport of me? I know how this works. You're teasing me because I'm plain and gawky—and you're anything but."

Frustrated tears prick my lids. I think of my crush in high school. A guy named Cato, who pretended to like me on a dare, turned my affections into a game, stole a kiss and then asked me to meet him for a date. When I got to the movie theatre, excited and dressed up, he was there. So were his friends and dozens of kids from school, cheering meanly, laughing and taking pictures of me.

Peeta looks horrified. I realize too late that I've been speaking out loud, recapping the memory to him.

I make it as far as the front door. I open it, only for him to catch up and shove it closed again.

"Stay," he says from behind. "Please, Katniss."

It aches so good, the way he hisses my name. It resonates in private places that I never knew existed, literally caressing my heart. Now I know what he once meant by words having texture.

Do I really believe he's as cruel as Cato? No. Peeta's been nothing but sincere. He encouraged me to believe in my writing. He touched me because he wanted to touch me, and because he knew that _I_ wanted it as well.

He whispers, "When I said that I've been thinking about you, I wasn't clear. I can't _stop_ thinking about you."

Holy Jesus. He's serious.

Peeta sneaks his lips beneath my earlobe. "I love your righteous attitude. I love the way you fidget with your glasses. I love the way your lips wrap around the rim of my cup."

With a sigh, I fall into him. He takes that as permission and tugs my bag from my shoulder, and the sound of it hitting the floor is the loudest thing I've ever heard—aside from the mad gallop in my chest, because I cannot believe this is happening.

"I love that you're stubborn and honest," he says. "I want every bit of you. Every single bit." My jacket lands beside the bag. "Katniss, I promise, I would never hurt you."

"I wouldn't let you," I answer.

"Good."

"This is real?"

He reaches past me and locks the door. "Let's find out."

As soon as we hear the bolt snap shut, an anticipatory wave of goosebumps rides up my skin. Peeta pivots me around, his lips in a rush against mine. He kisses me with his whole body, his chest trapping my breasts, his hands climbing the back of my head and fastening me in place. I've been kissed before, yet those times wither next to this. The sensual tug of his lips, the wet arch or his tongue flicking over my own. The way he licks at my palate, stirring inside me until my knees quiver and his arms are the only things keeping me upright.

Pieces of his verse swim through my mind. _May I kiss you… my tongue…and your tongue...travel the earth together…synchronize with solid places…with other dampened lips…_

My hands rake through his hair, rattling a groan from him. An astonished, needy mewl escapes me as he slants his mouth in a different direction and sucks my upper lip between his teeth.

When I buck my hips, he breaks the kiss. "I'm going to take off your panties."

"Yes," I answer, not recognizing the disorder in my voice, nor the gruffness in his.

His hands sweep beneath my dress, running along the scalloped trim of my panties before easing them down my legs, so very slow, that there's a gravely texture to my moans. The panties slip over my boots and pool around my ankles. I step out of them, and Peeta nudges them to the side. Where my thighs meet, I'm swollen and slick, having felt his kiss down there.

By the time Peeta sinks to his knees, the throbbing has accelerated. He lifts my skirt and presses the pads of his thumbs against me, spreading me and exposing the little bud that's already twitching for him.

"You're exquisite," he mumbles, his breath gusting over my skin.

He places a kiss to that spot, making me yelp in surprise, then hooks my left leg over his shoulder and tastes me in an excruciating way. My entire being snaps to attention while my head thunks helplessly against the door, my arms whipping out to grasp the frame. "Oh, my god," I rasp.

His tongue glides up over the split in my body, slippery, feather-light, and rippling from his own sighs of appreciation. Pleasure curls where he licks around my opening, repeatedly tracing the circular shape, alternating between that and sweeping his tongue inside me. I hear him swallow, and oh fuck, it's like he's drinking from me. I'm incoherent, practically wheezing from the hollow ache that keeps building.

But that's nothing compared to what he does next. There's another spot, a bump right between the opening and the clit, which he moves on to. Humming, he seizes it and draws it into his sweltering mouth, pinching me slightly with his teeth.

"Oh," I keen, lost to the strong rhythm of his jaw. "God, I can't. I can't. Please."

Encouraged, he grabs my thigh off his shoulder and flattens it high against the door. Finally, his lips slope toward the bud and latch on. And don't...let...go.

My mouth falls open. My fingers claw into the doorframe, my joints bracing in order to absorb the full impact of him suctioned around me.

It's the sight of Peeta's blond head flanked by my legs that racks my entire being. His mouth bobs faster, working me harder, and my cries splinter through the room as I go blind, the muscles inside me convulsing, spasming against his lips.

Peeta emerges, a look of pure devotion on his face. He catches me before I puddle to the floor, his lips skimming mine. "I need to have more of you."

This is too fast. We're moving way too fast.

I don't give a fuck.

My fingers dare to slip past his robe and under his tank, roaming across the grooves and corded muscles of his abdomen. "Yes," I say.

Growling, he hoists me into his arms, carries me to the sofa, and strips us of the rest of our clothes. I had expected to be self-conscious of my nudity. Instead, I'm a girl on fire. I'm beautiful, and he's beautiful.

We come to our senses long enough for him to rush into his bedroom and return with a condom. Under a blanket, I savor the planes of his torso, the sight of his cock straining for me, our mingled hiss as he maneuvers himself through my body.

It's slow. It's new. The weight of him on top of me, our restless lips fusing together. The revolution of his hips, the tip of his erection teasing my entrance, then his length swooping fully into me, burning bad, then burning good. My knees riding him. The profile of his ass as it pumps. His thrusts whipping me into the cushion, hitting a spot that crackles up my spine. Moment to sweet, uncontrolled moment.

Also, his words. That he's wanted me since he first saw me. That he wants to freeze this moment.

"Do you feel my body fucking yours? Should I make you come now?" he asks.

I whimper in acknowledgment. Peeta laces our fingers together, balling them into fists at the sides of my head, then lashes into me with more insistent strokes. His body bends at a steep angle with each jolt of his pelvis, our hands squeezing against the momentum, locking us down and keeping my head from slamming against the arm of the sofa.

That amazing, blinding light returns. We tense at exactly the same time, freezing this moment with shout from both of us. As we buckle into the cushions in a sweaty, tangled heap, our heavy breaths overlapping, I know this was real. I've just slept with Peeta Mellark. Words and bliss swirl in my head. I could get used to it.

Afterward, he lights the fireplace and snuggles between my limbs. His goofy enthusiasm makes me laugh. We're quiet for a while, but it's a happy quiet where I explore the skin around his navel and he combs through my hair.

He kisses the rim of my glasses and whispers his flaws. "I'm self-conscious about every poem I write. I need ladders to reach anything. I'm kind of compulsive. I drink unsweetened tea whenever I'm nervous. I'm still not good enough for my family, but that won't stop me from trying to be. I'm hopelessly hopeful." He smiles. "Like tonight, I'm getting ideas of how to keep you here."

I'm not going anywhere. Though since he's offering... "I do have one request."

Padding over to my bag on the floor, I pull out my story. As I return to the couch, Peeta sits up and opens the blanket for me. I straddle his lap and clear my throat. "I'd like to read you something.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem mentioned in this story is "Anticipation" by Erich Fried.
> 
> I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com. Come say hi!


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